It just occurred to me... children are expected to know the answers to more
than 1,001 rather unfathomable questions.

We are told that, on average, mothers have to answer 23 questions an hour. They have to deal with all their children’s queries, such as: “Why is water wet?” and “What are shadows made of?” and “Is God married?”.

I can quite believe this statistic is accurate, but I think we ought to spare a thought for poor children, whose days are spent under a hail of questions from their mothers. Your average small child hardly has any time to find an original place to hide his shoe, as he (or she) copes with a constant flow of interrogation.

What have you got stuck up your nose? Do you need the loo? Have you been good? Well, where were you when you last had Mr Hippo? Did you make your sister cry? Where did you learn that word? Do you think Daddy really likes Brygida?

You are having a thoughtful sit on the loo and every 20 seconds she is hovering over you with more questions. Have you done anything? Shall I have a look? Do you want to try again later?

It seems that mothers are in constant need of reassurance. Why did you draw me with three noses and fangs? Why is T Rex in the butter? What did you bury in that hole in the garden? Is Brygida nice to Daddy? What is that smell?

Then there are those impossible hypothetical or philosophical questions. How could Mr Hippo have drawn on the wall with his felt tip pen when we don’t even know where Mr Hippo is? If I let you watch the Wallace and Gromit DVD one more time, make you finish only half your peas, promise that we will make more chocolate crunchies tomorrow, think seriously about getting a guinea pig and let you keep your wellies on, will you go to bed? What makes you think your socks are sad? If Mr Tumble, Stegosaurus, the Queen, next door’s dog and a worm can’t come to your birthday party, who would you like to invite instead? Why won’t you ever go to sleep?

Your average small boy may consider himself pretty well informed about dinosaurs and the names of the rolling stock associated with Thomas the Tank Engine, but sometimes his mother seems to think he is omniscient.

Where are my house keys? Why is my mobile in the fridge? Why isn’t the goldfish in his bowl? What have I done to deserve this?